“Of course.” She glanced at him. “Can you imagine any ambassador of Camden’s caliber not keeping detailed notes?”
“Indeed—so why did Leponte need to ask?”
“Edward’s theory is that that was merely a gambit to elicit some reply alluding to where such papers might be.”
“I take it the gambit failed?”
“Naturally.” Halting before the French doors to the terrace, currently open to let in the evening breeze, she drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “Edward’s entirely trustworthy—he gave Ferdinand no joy at all.”
Michael frowned. “What else did Leponte ask? Specifically.”
She raised her brows, recalled Edward’s sober words. “He asked if it was possible to gain access to Camden’s papers.” She met Michael’s gaze. “To further his studies into Camden’s career, of course.”
His lips thinned. “Of course.”
She studied his steady blue eyes. “You don’t believe him, do you?”
“No. And neither do you.”
She wrinkled her nose. Turning, she gazed out, unseeing. “Ferdinand knew Camden for years—only now has he shown any interest.”
After a moment, he asked, “Where are Camden’s papers?”
“In the London house.”
“It’s closed up?”
She nodded and met his eyes. “But they’re not lying around in his study or anywhere easy to find, so…”
His eyes narrowed, then he glanced back up the room.
Half turning, she followed his gaze. Geoffrey’s eyes were closed—he looked to be asleep; at the pianoforte, Elizabeth and Edward had eyes only for each other.
Michael’s fingers closed about her elbow; before she could react, he’d steered her outside.
“You’re not, by any chance, considering giving Leponte access to those papers?”
She blinked at him. “No—of course not. Well…” She looked ahead, let him link their arms and stroll with her down the long terrace. “At least not until I know exactly what he’s looking for and, even more importantly, why.”
Michael glanced at her face, saw the determination behind her words, and was satisfied. She clearly didn’t trust Leponte. “You would have a better idea than most—what could he be after?”
“I never read Camden’s diaries—I don’t believe anyone has. As for the rest, who knows?” She shrugged, looking down as they descended the steps to the lawn; distracted by his question, she didn’t seem to notice…
Then again, would Caro truly not notice?
It was an intriguing question, but not one he felt any need to press her over; if she was willing to go along with his direction, he wasn’t foolish enough to erect hurdles in her path.
“I’m sure whatever it is, it can’t be anything diplomatically serious.” She glanced at him through the deepening dusk as they headed down the lawn. “The Ministry called Edward in for a debriefing as soon as we arrived back in England, and that was on top of the discussions both Edward and I had with Gillingham, Camden’s successor. We spent our last weeks in Lisbon making sure he knew everything there was to know. If anything had cropped up since, I’m sure he, or the Foreign Office, would have contacted Edward.”
He nodded. “It’s hard to see what it might be, given Camden’s been buried for two years.”
“Indeed.”
The word was somewhat vague. He looked at her, and realized she’d guessed where he was taking her.
She was looking at the summerhouse, at the dark expanse of lake beyond it rippling and lapping, ruffled by the rising breeze. Clouds were racing, overrunning each other as they streaked and tumbled across the evening sky, breaking up the lingering light. They would have a storm before dawn; it was still some distance away, yet the sense of its rising, of the air quivering at its approach, a primal warning of elemental instability rushing their way, was pervasive.
Heightening anticipation, tightening nerves.